


A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bank...

by oyhumbug



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Humor, Romance, alternative history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Oliver Queen meets Felicity Smoak, she doesn't work for his family's company, and she's in a committed, long-term relationship. Despite this, there's an instant connection between them. How do these differences change their interaction moving forward... or do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bank...

**Author's Note:**

> While going back and re-watching S1 (in order to take notes in preparation for the sequel to The First Time... which (status update) is in the outline stage), I found inspiration for several alternative takes on episodes, giving them a more Olicity spin. This one shot is the first. Also, for those of you curious about when the next story will be up in the 'Devil Series,' while I haven't started writing it yet, I do have some notes for it, and it's on my to-write list. I've just been trying to focus on And Then a Butterfly... and a lighter ficlet to break up the angst that is my full-length story.
> 
> [Visuals: Felicity's Brunch, Work, and Gala Outfits](http://www.pinterest.com/oycharlynnrose/a-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words-fic-visuals/)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bank...** **  
An Olicity One Shot**

 

A funny thing happened on the way to the bank...  
  
… because I ended up at the vigilante's secret lair.  
  
But I'm getting ahead of myself.  
  
You see, it all started like this...

 

...

 

Her orange juice tasted... funky. Not spunky – thank you, Samantha! – but off.  
  
Different.  
  
 _Funky_.  
  
It wasn't a bad different. In fact, it was downright yummilicious.   
  
If she wasn't so intimidated, she'd ask what made it special. But she was. Intimidated, that is. So, instead, she remained sitting primly in her seat – elbows off the table, ankles crossed and tucked discretely underneath her chair, back ramrod straight and inches from touching her backrest – and drank delicately from her crystal goblet. It was probably a priceless heirloom (the goblet, not the juice, because Felicity was pretty sure the extra something special wasn't mold)... considering where she was – perhaps descending from Maria Antoinette or Anastasia Romanov. After all, she could see Moira Queen... Queen-Steele... Moira Queen of Steele (he!) getting her rocks off to beheading and/or political massacres. It was the fact that her mind had just gone _there_ that was proof positive why it was in everyone's best interest (okay, so mainly hers, but it was a leopard eat panda world out there... and she was a panda) that she just continue sippin' on her gin and juice (hold the gin – hello, it was 10:30 in the morning) and not engage in conversation.  
  
So, when the Queen maid... or was it a butler?, though butler's were men, right?, but maids cleaned, and... she just really needed to catch up on Downton Abbey if she was going to be hanging with the rich folk on a regular basis. Anyway, when the lady with the funky orange juice made another round, checking to see if anyone wanted refills (and, duh!, of course Felicity did, because they were supposed to eat a half hour ago, and she was starving... like concave stomach starving), she smiled prettily (lips closed over teeth, of course... just so, you know, not to tempt fate that words would be able to escape) and readily accepted.   
  
She was halfway through her second... no, wait – was it her third? – glass, admiring how the sunlight was reflecting off not only the crystal stemware but also her rose gold bangles (really, it was a shame she couldn't wear bracelets more often, but, alas, they messed with her typing feng shui) when Felicity started to notice that she felt... lighter. Airy. Effervescent. Discreetly, she started looking around the massive dining room (the Queens didn't call it a state dining room, but they should have) to see if anyone else was feeling slightly giddy, but all she saw were expressions that ranged from abject boredom (Thea Queen) to pompous....  
  
“Sorry I'm late. It... Who are you?”  
  
“Huh?” Her eyes already focused on the newcomer because _how could they not be?_ , Felicity just gaped. And then that fear she had that, if she opened her mouth, she wouldn't be able to stop it again? Yeah... that fear became a reality. “I mean, whoa.” She shook her head, trying to dispel that thought. “I mean, wow.” And _that_ thought. “I mean, what?” _And seriously?!_ Her mind, and her mouth, and her manners hated her.   
  
Breaking the tension, her new best friend, Thea Queen, laughed.  
  
But then Moira was speaking, and Felicity found her gaze ping-ponging back and forth between mother and, she presumed, son... who was now seated as well. “Oliver, this is Carter's girlfriend. They met when Carter was attending Harvard...”  
  
“I actually went to MIT. And I tutored Carter. That's how we met.”  
  
“... and have been together ever since.”  
  
“And also,” Thea piped in, rolling her eyes. “Her name's Felicity... because, you know, most people like to be identified by an actual moniker and not by who they're sleeping with.”  
  
“Eh.” When every pair of eyes around the ridiculously long and shiny table turned to look at her, Felicity winced. Rushing to explain, she said, “no, she's right. I prefer to be known as Felicity Smoak, not Carter Bowen's plus one. I wasn't 'eh'ing' you, Thea. Well, I was... just not the 'say my name, say my name' part; the sleeping with part, because, if we're talking about sex? Then not really, because Carter's like _super_ busy. And, if we're talking about sleeping sleeping, then, yeah, not really that either, because he says that I move around too much in my sleep, and that I cuddle too much, and that I give off too much heat, and he's a doctor, so he needs a good eight hours of sleep every night, so that people don't croak...” To emphasize her words, she made a gagging noise and tilted her head to the side, eyes widening comically. “... on his watch.”  
  
Finally taking a breath, she realized _everything_ she had just said, blushing profusely. And then she blanched, because Carter was going to be humiliated, and his mother was going to be angry. And then (because what else was she supposed to do?) Felicity reached for her funky orange juice, draining the glass.  
  
She was just lapping up the final drops when the goblet was yanked unceremoniously from her hand, making her squeak in protest. “I think you've had enough of that,” Carter rebuked her.  
  
Her brow furrowed. “It's just orange juice – albeit really good orange juice, but I'm not diabetic, and orange juice is good for you, and I'm starving.”  
  
“Felicity,” her boyfriend sighed in frustration. “It's not just orange juice; it's a mimosa... as in champagne.” He leaned in closer to her, whispering accusingly, but, besides amazing light... and largeness, the Queen dining room had really good acoustics, too, so everyone could still hear his chastising words. “You're drunk.”  
  
“I'm not drunk,” she argued. Then she remembered that whole bubbly feeling, and she shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, so I might be slightly not sober, but this is not my fault. Who spikes unsuspecting IT girls' drinks at 10:30 in the morning? I mean, sure... did I notice that the orange juice tasted a little different? Yeah. But I just thought that's what rich people's orange juice tasted like – you know, fresh squeezed and with an added dash of their illegal immigrant servant's blood, sweat, and tears.”  
  
For the first time since he had asked who she was, Oliver spoke up. “Actually, Raisa's second generation, and she has duel citizenship.”   
  
As she lifted her hands to cover her mortification, Felicity distinctly noticed amusement coloring Oliver Queen's face. Oh, he wasn't smiling outright – though she was sure that sight would have been pretty enough to make her forget hiding between her brightly painted nails, but his eyes – baby blue, beautiful blue, make me want to get buck naked blue eyes – were certainly dancing with laughter. She had to physically shake away the attraction that lashed through her. But then Moira was talking again, and any thought of wanting to drink a mimosa out of Oliver's belly button disappeared entirely.  
  
“So, Miss Smoak...” She wasn't sure if by referring to her so formally instead of as Carter's chattel was an upgrade to first class or if the Queen of Steele had just booted her back to coach, but, either way, Felicity would take it. “ … did I hear you mention that you work in an IT department?”  
  
“You did. And I do.”  
  
See, that was good – brief, to the point, non-insulting. Or compromising. Or something that would make her want to bury her head in a potted plant.   
  
“And what exactly does that entail,” Moira asked her. “We, of course, have our own IT department at Queen Consolidated, but I have to admit that I am grossly uninformed when it comes to technology.”  
  
“Oh, you know,” Felicity hedged, grateful when a bowl of fresh fruit was placed before her. She immediately dug in, not paying attention to which utensil she picked up. She just wanted the distraction of eating. And she wanted to eat. And she really needed to soak up some of that funky tasting orange juice with actual food. “Basically, the IT department has two main functions: prevention and maintenance. We try to prevent problems from happening, but, when they do, we fix them.”  
  
She was on a freaking roll. Speaking of which, she hoped there were cinnamon buns. Rich people always had the best cinnamon....  
  
“Problems such as... system failures, someone trying to hack into a company?” Again, it was Moira with the nerd inquisition.  
  
“Well, sure,” she shrugged. “Those things are possible... theoretically, but, really, no one's going to get past my firewalls. I am: The Best. We mainly deal with people who don't know how to reset their computers and with old pervs who like to download porn and then wonder why they all of a sudden have a trojan.” Felicity snickered then. “Have you ever thought about how ironic that name is – a _trojan_ virus, considering how many result from watching other people have...” Her eyes became wide with sudden realization of just where she was taking all of them, conversation-wise. _Again._ So, trying to distract herself and regroup, Felicity started to count down. “Three, two, one... somebody please ask Carter about himself so that I won't have a chance to say something _else_ inappropriate _._ ”  
  
It wasn't until Thea giggled and Oliver outright chuckled that Felicity realized just how insulting her directive for a non-inappropriate topic of discussion really was. But, thankfully, it was too late for her to backtrack, because Moira had taken her up on her advice and had asked Carter about his career. So, as her boyfriend prattled on pretentiously about 'insert snooty medical jargon here,' Felicity made herself as small as she possibly could and kept the grub constantly shoveled into her traitor of a mouth.   
  
Really, she wasn't being fair to Carter, and it certainly wasn't his fault that she couldn't _not_ make a fool out of herself in polite company. Usually, she wasn't _that_ bad. After dating Carter and attending functions on his arm now for more than three years, she was actually pretty adept at blending in like wallpaper, and making like a rug, and allowing others to walk all over her. She didn't like those events, or generally speaking the people who attended them, or even how they made her feel about herself, but they were great for networking (that's how she had landed such an amazing job straight out of college at one of Starling City's up-and-coming tech companies), and they were important for Carter's career. Even if a little stuffy and a lot boring – the events, not her boyfriend... usually, Carter was a good guy.   
  
He had been good for her, too – _was_ good for her. Dating Carter, who just seemed to excel at everything, had made Felicity all the more confident in herself. Plus, he treated her well. All kidding aside about the lack of passion in their relationship, he was sweet. He never raised his voice at her, he never cared that she didn't come from money, and he was always complimenting her intelligence. Sure, they had their issues – like how she rambled and how he could sometimes talk down to her even though, of the two of them, she was the genius and he was just blessed with super genes, charism, and a pedigree that scared most people. Sure, he was smart, too, but Felicity was in a league of her own – an 'each girl stands, her head so proudly...'  
  
“Why would he want you to be a wizard?”  
  
The question was so innocent, and cheeky, and clueless all at once that it was adorable, and it was so hilarious that Felicity found herself snorting in mirth and agreement. “I'm sorry,” she immediately apologized, lifting a hand to discreetly cover her mouth and nose, but then she just started to giggle uncontrollably. “I just... I can't...” Wiping some tears from the corners of her eyes, she directed her next words towards her boyfriend and continued, “just you... with a blonde, receding pompadour... It's too much.”  
  
Sighing, Carter explained, “Dr. Oz is from television.”  
  
She screwed up her face in thought. “Really? Because I watch a lot of shows, and, even if I don't watch a show, I generally know what it's about and the main characters' names, and I've never once heard of a Dr. Oz.”  
  
“He's not a character; he's a real doctor.”  
  
“Yeah, like anybody who was a real doctor would ever have the last name Oz.” And to further cement her ridicule, Felicity rolled her eyes.  
  
Before Carter – or anyone else for that matter – could say anything else, someone (another insanely attractive and well-built man in a suit... really she just might have to hang out at the HotMan Buck-rabbit Mansion more often) approached Oliver Queen, handed him a phone, and whispered something which caused the late arrival to their little boozy-brunch to stand up. He quickly excused himself and then... didn't come back.   
  
After Moira followed after her son, she returned a few moments later, but the meal progressed rather quickly from that point on. Felicity just ate her suddenly not-quite-so-tasty food in silence, while everyone else exchanged polite pleasantries and small talk. Soon enough, it was time to leave, and Felicity found herself both relieved and disappointed. As she climbed into the back of Carter's car – allowing his mother to sit up front, she found herself once again thinking about Oliver Queen... which was ridiculous. She had spent – what, maybe fifteen minutes? – in his presence? Sure, they'd shared a few laughs, and she'd launched more than a few lustful glances in his direction, but he was _him_ , and she was _her_ , and she was also dating someone else. That morning had been... an anomaly. They'd each go back to their very separate and very different lives, and they'd never see each other again. And that was fine. Great. Super fine great even.   
  
Only not.  
  
It totally sucked donkey balls.

 

For the rest of the ride and until Carter dropped her back at work (she had taken the morning off to attend the brunch) – kissing her politely goodbye, Felicity did nothing but think about Oliver Queen... and what it would be like to lick funky tasting orange juice off of him.  
  
She was in _so_ much trouble.

 

…

 

“So, Carter Bowen needed a tutor in college, huh?”  
  
Felicity jumped in her chair, gasped, and, in the process, sucked in the pen cap she had been chewing on, nearly choking. As she tried to regain her composure, she watched wide-eyed as Oliver Queen lounged oh-so-confidently – like a sexy, sleek cat... only, if either of them were going to purr, she had a sneaking suspicion it'd be her – in the open doorway of her office. He was dressed casually – jeans and a sweater this time – but was just as tempting.   
  
“You know, if you had been my tutor, I bet I never would have dropped out of college – not one of the four of them.”  
  
“I might have, though,” she murmured to herself... or, at least, it was supposed to be to herself, but Oliver 'I-Have-Sonic-Hearing' Queen must have heard her, because he smirked. “I mean... I only tutored Carter for, like, a single semester. It was his last year of med school, and he was really stressed, and... I'm guessing the details don't really matter to you.”  
  
“Not really,” he confirmed, dropping his arms from where they had been crossed over his chest and sauntering into her office. Instead of taking one of the chairs in front of Felicity's desk, Oliver came around to sit on topof it, beside her – the denim of his pants brushing against her bare arm. “So, what other skeletons from Carter's closet can you tell me about?”  
  
“Mr. Queen, I highly doubt you came here...”  
  
“Oh, please,” he feigned insult. “We've drank together, laughed together, we're flirting. It's Oliver.”  
  
“Right....” He smiled at her, and she blushed. “Anyway, we're really not going to talk about Carter the whole time, are we?”  
  
“God, I hope not.”  
  
Felicity couldn't help herself; she giggled. And then she was kind of an awful person. (Okay, so there wasn't anything 'kind of' awful about her; she was just plain rotten.) “Because that conversation won't last long.”  
  
“And you're hoping I stay for a while?”  
  
If she didn't know better, she'd think that Oliver Queen was fishing for a compliment... or to be stroked. His ego! She meant that he wanted his _ego_ to be stroked. Not that she wouldn't....  
  
Thankfully, none of _that_ came out. Instead, she simply said, “meh.” At his quirked brow, she elaborated, “you're good for my reputation – you know, building up my street cred as a playa' and all.”  
  
He leaned in closer, and Felicity found herself inexplicably (no, that was a lie, for she knew _exactly_ why she was doing what she was doing) meeting him halfway. “Between you and me, I saw most of your competition while making my way to your office, and I don't think you have anything to worry about.”  
  
“Flattery like that will get you just about anything – and everything – you want.”  
  
If it wasn't for Oliver's chuckle, she probably would have burned with embarrassment. “Hmm... now that you mention it,” he segued, sitting up once again. “I could use your help on something.”  
  
All business (though looking at him was still certainly a pleasure), Felicity instructed, “name it.”  
  
“I'm trying to track down an old friend, but he's sort of gone off the grid.”  
  
“Well, at least you know that you guys still have something in common.”  
  
Oliver just shook his head in poorly concealed delight, smirking. “Anyway, I was hoping that you could find him for me... since, you know, you are _the best_.”  
  
After that, they paused their flirting long enough for Felicity to do a search on one Derek Reston. Although she gladly would have spent her entire day (week, month, year, life) teasing and laughing with Oliver, she was at work... not that she'd _ever_ be fired, because she was that good at her job, but Felicity considered herself a professional, and, technically, she was on the clock, so.... yeah. Flirty-flirting was bad, especially since she had a boyfriend. Plus, after just a few minutes of looking, it quickly became apparent that Derek Reston was no friend of Oliver Queen's; they weren't even acquaintances.  
  
Which meant that he had lied to her.  
  
Which meant that he was up to something other than trying to track down somebody from his past.  
  
Which meant she was in _way_ over her head, because Felicity didn't even care.  
  
She was still considering her latest realization where Oliver was concerned when she finally noticed that he had stood as if to leave. Not wanting to have him looming over her, she stood as well, habitually smoothing down her skirt as she got to her feet. It was only once she looked up that she noticed that, instead of moving away from her, he had actually stepped closer, trapping her between his body and her desk. (Had she always enjoyed such cramped spaces, or was this a new phenomena?)  
  
She tried to meet Oliver's gaze only to realize that he wasn't looking at her eyes. Instead, he was focused upon her mouth – intensely so. Suddenly, her throat felt dry, and Felicity found herself licking her lips. And, oh my god, was that her chest that had just brushed against his because, out of nowhere, her breathing had escalated to the point of near breathlessness? Then, Oliver grinned, and her knees turned to jello. If it wasn't for the arm corded with muscles that wrapped around her waist, tugging her even closer to him, Felicity thought she might have stumbled.  
  
“Thank you,” Oliver said, and she could feel his fingers singeing through her blouse, rubbing back and forth, and up and down, and in circles against the fabric. “ … for helping me...”  
  
Felicity wasn't sure if she moaned before in anticipation or after his lips touched hers in appreciation, but, whenever the sound of contentment, of bliss, escaped from between her pink painted mouth, it was nothing but an invitation for him to have, take, conquer more. Everything. And he did, though Oliver also took his time – first exploring her lips through gentle sips, and licks, and nips before allowing his tongue to touch and then tangle with hers. When he finally pulled away, he was breathing heavy, and he had her convinced that she no longer wanted or needed oxygen.  
  
“So, will I see you at the Gala?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Her eyes were still closed – fluttering deliciously every time a jolt of fading pleasure tickled her spine – and she was smiling softly. When Oliver spoke again, she could hear the chuckle in his voice. “The CNRI Benefit Gala, I'm sure Carter was invited...?”  
  
It was the sound of her boyfriend's name that had Felicity snapping back to reality. She pulled away from Oliver... well, as much as she could considering he had her pressed up against her desk, and she tried to dump mental ice water over top of her libido... which just seemed to make the flames sizzle all the more. She was a horrible girlfriend – an adulterer... maybe not of the Hester Prynne level (yet) but she was certainly back in Massachusetts. “Is that why you kissed me... because I'm Carter's girlfriend?”  
  
“You don't have to be, you know. You could break up with him... or become someone else's girlfriend.”  
  
“Oliver!”  
  
He let go of her only to lift his right hand to her face. Ever so gently, he feathered the pads of his fingers against the apple of her cheek. Then, he smirked. “Maybe... 25%? Why?”  
  
“And the other 75%?”  
  
“Because you, Felicity Smoak, are remarkable.”  
  
She was still blinking in an attempt to absorb what he had just said when she noticed... he was gone.  
  
Turning around and collapsing back into her desk chair, Felicity dropped her face into her hands and groaned.   
  
And so not in the good way.

 

…

 

When it came to rich people parties, her life was pretty much The Mixed-Up Files of Miss Felicity M. Smoak. To the outside observer, her attitude towards the galas, and the balls, and the auctions made absolutely no sense, but to Felicity? Well, she and her behavior were always rational... if not conflicting.  
  
It all started with clothes. (Didn't it always?) She just... never got it right. In the beginning (when she had first started dating Carter and attending events with him), she had always been too formal. Afraid to send some blue blood with blue hair into apoplectic shock if she showed her knees, Felicity had opted for gowns – albeit cheap, knock-off gowns... but gowns nonetheless. It had taken far too many eye rolls and a very drunk housewife to ridicule her for being so obviously _bourgeoisie_ before Felicity got the imaginary, invisible memo.  
  
Unfortunately, it just got worse from there... which further served to confuse her. After months of dressing up too much, Carter had invited her along to a poolside barbeque. So, Felicity had gone in her bathing suit underneath a pair of jean shorts and a cute tank. Too bad everybody else showed up like they were at the Kentucky flippin' Derby and not like they were about to throw some shrimp on the barbie. It had been traumatizing.   
  
Now, three years later, she still didn't know what synonyms for party meant cocktail and which ones meant black-tie. Even if Felicity could have figured out proper dress length, though, she still wouldn't have been accepted... or acceptable. She always wore the wrong colors, the wrong cuts, definitely the wrong designers (or clothes that had a distinct lack there of), and forget about her accessories. While everybody else showed up with Jimmy, Christian, and Manolo as their dates, Felicity was the token shoe lesbian who always brought her Macy's specials.  
  
And, as she glanced around the benefit that evening, everything was as it should be... as in she was the guppy amongst a room full of whales. Apparently, her invitation (not that she actually received an invitation, because she was just Carter's 'I have time to save the world _and_ pick up charity case girlfriends' arm-candy) forgot to mention that everybody was supposed to wear black. Sure, you could mix it up and make it black lace (like Thea Queen) or just a black skirt with a dark colored blouse (like Moira Queen), but anything brighter than death warmed over? Well, you could only get away with that if you _were_ the charity – Joanna – and not there _for_ the charity.  
  
And... oh my god. Forget horrible. She was now a despicable person.  
  
Evidently (because of the company she kept), it was contagious.   
  
Afraid that if she stood in her corner for any longer that someone would be able to read her mind or, more likely, her body language and facial expressions, Felicity started to weave her way through the crowd, actively avoiding the temptation of the less popular waiters who carried food and making like a shadow with the ones schlepping the booze. After her first few disastrous forays into society, the only reason Felicity even agreed to go to the fat cat festivities was for the catering (well, until that particular evening's event). She'd (in her mind) swear that, if Sebastian's peeps weren't already endangered, they would be after she finished pounding the crab cakes, but then she'd get to the actual parties, and she'd make like Chicken Little, and she'd cry peanut. It was one thing to never dress properly; it was a whole different story to puff up like Tina Turner (you know... during her Ike days) in front of Starling City's trustafarians and tycoons.   
  
However, just being around all those delicacies made Felicity drool. So, to abate her hunger, to stymie her slobber, and to make the time go faster, she always gravitated towards the wine. Plus, nobody bought wine like the privileged. It was good to the last drop, and you couldn't just have one... glass, that was. But, for Felicity, an empty stomach and the best robust reds on the market did not make for a swell combination.   
  
As she was pretty sure that neon sign above her head flashed incessantly, forewarning the world, Felicity didn't have the greatest control over her mouth. Add one babbling idiot to two too many glasses of vino, and her lips did things even she didn't understand. And then she always embarrassed herself. And then, then she inevitably embarrassed Carter and his long line of equally serious (and accomplished) ancestors. And then, then, then his mom got p to the i, to the s, to the s, to the e, to the d. And then, then, then, then she and Carter would get into a fight and she'd swear off _ever_ going to one of his wanker wingdings again. And then, then, then, then, _then_ she'd wake up with a hangover the next morning, a fuzzy recollection of all the things – particularly her boyfriend – that she had sworn off the night before... or so Felicity assumed, because he never called her on it, and they just went back to the way they were before, the way they always had been, as if nothing had ever happened.  
  
She was just about to reach for a glass of red – _come on baby, mama wants a Cabernet Sauvignon –_ when her greedy, greedy fingers were trapped by and then twined through someone else's, and she was spun around to come face to face, chest to chest, and, whoa!, thigh to thigh with one of the nobbiest nobs of them all.   
  
Oliver Queen was smiling at her. He was touching her, holding her, dancing with her.   
  
“You came.”  
  
“I saw, too, but I did not conquer, because you just spun me away from my prize.”  
  
She received a dimple (okay, so maybe two) in response. “And here I thought dancing with me...”  
  
Felicity didn't even allow him to finish his cheesy remark before she was tilting her head to the side and calling him out with her eyes.   
  
He switched tactics. “You look lovely...”  
  
“ … thanks...”  
  
“ … like cotton candy.”  
  
“ … for nothing,” she finished, frowning. His brow furrowed, his gaze narrowed with question. “Oliver, cotton candy is something you eat, not a look you want to emulate.”  
  
 _And when exactly did his name just start rolling off her tongue so easily, so familiarly?  
  
_ He leaned in closer. (She hadn't realized that was even possible.) He licked his lips. (She really wanted to do that for him.) And then he laughed, and she realized that she had said what was supposed to be her last parenthetical thought out loud. (Her bad.)  
  
“Well, I love _eating_ cotton candy.”  
  
With eyes round, and wide, and blinking like an owl's, Felicity stared at the man across from her, the heat his words were making her feel settling visibly upon her cheeks. But then Oliver was dipping his head down towards hers, his intent – to kiss her – clear. She barely managed to crook her face away just in time; she barely managed to convince herself that she should. “I, uh, still have a boyfriend.”  
  
“You haven't broken up with him yet?”  
  
“If I had, then I wouldn't have been able to come here tonight.” At everything her comment didn't say yet still revealed, Felicity felt her blush spread and become a flush, suffusing down her neck, across her chest, and over onto her shoulders. Oliver's gaze – and then the tips of his blunt, calloused fingers – followed. In fact, a single digit was just brushing under the left strap of her dress when, from behind him, a throat was cleared. Felicity glanced up and met the smirking, knowing gaze of the very same man who had interrupted brunch.  
  
With a low, impatient growl, Oliver stepped away. While Felicity honestly tried _not_ to eavesdrop, there was only so much ignorance a girl could feign, so, when she heard the words 'bank' and 'hit' and then watched, dumbfounded, as Oliver made some hasty, absurd excuse before disappearing into the crowd, it only took Felicity two shakes of a lamb's tail to decide that she should follow after him – because the gala was about as fun as the gallows; because Carter was off pinning buttons on his and Laurel Lance's chests (that same Laurel Lance who was Oliver's ex-girlfriend (yes, she had googled him; sue her), so, yeah... what incestuous webs they wove when first they practiced to... beguile?); because there was no reason for a billionaire to need to make a bank run in the middle of a charity event. Men like Oliver Queen didn't fold up twenties and put them in a collection basket being passed around; no, they whipped it out on the table and compared whose was bigger, meta – _check!_ \- phorically speaking, of course.  
  
Not wasting her time with the valet attendants, Felicity ran (okay, so it was more like galloping and skipping mated, and, whatever she was doing in _four freaking inch heels_ , it was their love child) to her Mini and had the thing started and on the road before Oliver's Bentley could disappear from sight. As she drove, she tried to work her way through what was happening, what she was doing, what she was going to do whenever they _both_ arrived at the bank. Only, they didn't go to a bank. In fact, they fled the cushy cradle of Starling's finance district and, speeding, drove into the Glades, only stopping when they came to the old, abandoned Queen foundry.  
  
Quickly parking and turning off her car, Felicity watched as Oliver and his chauffeur/butler/personal assistant slipped into the building through an obscure side door, her mind sifting through what information it could recall. While she wasn't a news groupie... Okay, so there was that brief period in her life (it was high school!) during the Hurricane Katrina coverage when she had a teeny-tiny crush on Anderson Cooper (pre-coming out days), but every girl liked a silver fox at least once in her life, right? And, besides, at least it wasn't Geraldo Rivera. There had been a girl in her Government class who had mucho lusto for the mustachioed... Yep. _So_ didn't need to go there. Anyway... Maybe she didn't stalk CNN, but Felicity was informed. She followed HuffPost on Twitter; she subscribed to not just one but _two_ local news blogs... you know, for accuracy's sake. So, she knew that Oliver had been spotted in and around his father's old factory, and, after brunch, she knew that he planned on opening a nightclub, but what either piece of information had to do with a bank, and hitting, and whatever it was that made him leave the benefit (and her) so abruptly, she had no...  
  
A flash of green.  
  
The throaty purr of a Ducati.   
  
And an answer to so many questions Felicity hadn't even considered asking yet.  
  
Holy. Cannoli.

 

…

 

Felicity was flummoxed.   
  
Okay, so maybe that – flummoxed – wasn't the best word to use, because it reminded her of phlegm... which reminded her of gagging... which reminded her of throwing up... and she was already nervous enough without contemplating the idea of losing those stale fortune cookies she had found in the backseat of her Mini while waiting for Oliver – aka The Hood (and, whoa!, had she not seen that coming) – to return to his lair. Hidey-hole? Base of operations? Cover Club / Club Cover... which, considering that sometimes a person had to pay a cover charge to get into a club made the location all the more fitting.  
  
But no. She stopped her pacing and shook her head in silent self-reprimand. While usually when agitated, Felicity would welcome the distraction of her own random, rambling thoughts, she needed to focus on the problem at hand. Well, actually, two problems: the fact that she was a few tumblers of scotch and about a bajillion cigarettes away from becoming Don Draper _and_ that she now knew Oliver's secret, didn't want to jump into bed with him (because, really, was there any other end to the little flirtation they had been enjoying the past couple of days?) while keeping her knowledge of his secret a secret, and that she also knew without a doubt that the only reason he was willing to entertain a... whatever it was the two of them were doing together... with her was because he thought she didn't know about his secret.  
  
Oh, man. She needed a drink.  
  
 _Peggy!  
  
Dawn!  
  
Sally!  
  
_What did a philandering, two-timing, no good, dirty, rotten cheater have to do around here to get a little glass of liquid fortification?  
  
“Felicity?”  
  
Hearing her name said from behind her, Felicity spun around quickly only to let a little squeak escape her slightly parted, shocked lips. Only, she had no reason to be startled, because she had been purposefully standing there behind what had once been a factory and would soon be a nightclub because she had specifically seen Oliver's... partner in crime?... skip out twenty minutes earlier, and she had wanted to... oh, she didn't know. Talk to Oliver alone? Confront him? Jump his bones? All the above? But, now, looking at him, she just... forgot everything else.   
  
She forgot that the only reason he was so open and warm towards her was because he felt he had to be, that she wouldn't accept him for who he really was, that he didn't want her to know who he really was. She forgot about Carter, she forgot about The Hood, and she forgot about how bloody sore her feet were. Stupid heels. She even forgot her doubts about Oliver's genuine interest in her; doubts that had made her question whether perhaps he was just smiling at her, laughing with her, kissing her, touching her because he thought that's what she and everyone else expected from him, what he felt like he needed to do in order to maintain his cover. Instead, all she could see was the devastation and the dejection rolling off the man across from her.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
He answered her question with one of his own, a wall immediately going up between them. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Because she knew the truth – 'oh, well, I accidentally on purpose might have eavesdropped onto your conversation with your manservant and overheard some things that made me rather curious, so I followed you, found out about you, and now I still want to sleep with you' – probably wouldn't go over so well, Felicity opted for less honesty while still not necessarily lying. “You never went back to the party, and I remembered what you said about opening a club. You're like the Biebs of Starling, so the press knows everything about you. It didn't take me long to figure out that you plan on using your family's old factory for your club site.” All of which was true. While she had been waiting for that blur of green to return, Felicity had used her phone to google Oliver. Again.  
  
Some tension lifted from Oliver's shoulders, and he smiled – a dimpled, delicious, completely insincere smile. “So, I take it that means that you missed me?”  
  
“It's hard to miss something that you've never had.” Upon second reflection, she realized just how euphemistic her statement was and blushed. “I mean..., not that I want to have you. Or don't. Or... that this isn't all completely besides the point.”  
  
“Which would be?”  
  
“That you looked like someone kicked your puppy.” Oliver chuckled, and she noticed that it didn't seem quite as forced or contrived as his grin from just a minute before had been. The longer they were together, the more he was relaxing. “Although... when I think about you, I don't see you as the puppy kind of guy. A big, ferocious guard dog? Sure, maybe. Or, at least, he'd look all mean and grrr on the outside. Like you. But, if you'd rub his belly or scratch behind his ears, he'd melt into a big pile of a fur and give you slobbery, disgusting, doggy kisses.”  
  
“You see, all I heard from that is that you think about me and that you want to stroke my... stomach and drag your nails through my hair.”  
  
Still, she couldn't tell if his interest in her was genuine or not... which really irked Felicity. Three hours earlier, she had been confident about what was going on between them. She learned one itty, bitty, ginormous, life-altering piece of confidential information about the man, and suddenly she was fourteen and second-guessing herself around men – no, boys... boys was definitely the proper term here – again. The difference, however, was that she wasn't a blushing virgin anymore, and Oliver Queen – whether truly interested in her or not – wasn't a reluctant participant. He wasn't drunk, or stoned, or being coerced into flirting with her at all, which meant that, if she wanted to sleep with him (and she did), and he was willing and able to sleep with her (which, hello!), then who was she to stand in the way of her own good time?  
  
So, while she might have blushed, she also took a step forward and met Oliver's gaze with a purpose she hadn't felt in years. If ever. “So, what are you going to do about it?”  
  
“Does that mean that you broke up with Carter?”  
  
Hm... that was an interesting question. “Does that mean that a quarter of my appeal is no longer based upon my already taken status?”  
  
“It was never that you were somebody's girlfriend, Felicity; it was that you were Carter's.”  
  
“And now I feel like some prize piece of meat.” When he went to comment, she held up a halting hand. “Yeah... whatever you're thinking? Right now wouldn't be a good time to say it, because, what's worse than being objectified is the fact that I really don't care.”  
  
They still weren't touching, but that wasn't due to a lack of trying on Oliver's part. As he turned completely serious, he started stalking closer and closer to her, and, despite her encouragement, Felicity found herself backing up until she collided with one of the dirty, cold, damp outside walls of the old factory. Upon the rough sensation, a chill skidded down her spine, making her shiver, and a gasp slipped past her lips.   
  
“Maybe I lied; maybe my wanting you had nothing to do with anyone else but you and me.”  
  
Five minutes ago, she had been willing to sleep with him no matter what; now, it felt like her very breath depended upon what Oliver said next. “Why? Why do you want me?” Before he could respond, she was talking once more. “I mean, I know why I want you. You make me laugh, and you laugh _with_ me – not at me, not because of me, not in spite of me, but _with_ me. And you don't seem to mind when I start babbling. In fact, you seem to enjoy it, and, let me tell you, that's rare. Like... unicorn rare. Plus, I think we both know that you know that I think you're drop dead gorgeous. Shoot. Make that handsome. Handsome's better right? And manly. And strong. And... alright, fine. You make my entire body tingle... not in a sex-like way. Okay, so maybe in that way, too. But... like it's been asleep for my entire life, and then one glance at you, and I'm suddenly waking up. It's almost painful, there's so much sensation. So, yeah...,” and she finally took a breath, glancing away from him. “I really need to know why you want me.”  
  
He didn't hesitate to answer. “Because you make me laugh, too, and you make me want to make you laugh. And, if it's rare for someone to not make fun of or get annoyed with your babbling, then it's just as rare for someone to meet me and not look at me like I was damaged or broken by the island. You just... see me.” Felicity wanted to object that she only saw the parts of him that he allowed her to, but that would be opening up a can of worms better left closed. Because worms were slimy, and squirmy, and it totally freaked her out the way they were only happy when it rained. Depressed animals were creepy. “More importantly, though, if I make you feel like you're waking up, then you make me feel... alive.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that's all well and good, Oliver. You just described someone who would make an excellent friend. But, if you're not attracted to me...”  
  
“Felicity, I never said that.” And then he was rocking his hips into hers, and every last thought of worms, and Hoods, and stale fortune cookies left her mind. She was pressed up against the foundry wall, Oliver's arms were braced on either side of her, and the only place they were touching was where his erection was boldly, intimately surging _exactly_ where she wanted him. Her throat went dry, her pulse fluttered and raced, and she could actually feel her pupils dilate. She was that aroused.   
  
“Oh, sweet Sally sold sea-shells by the sea-shore.”  
  
When Oliver spoke again, his voice was raspy and deep with barely restrained lust. Felicity whimpered. “What. About. Carter.”  
  
She had to blink several times in order to regain her bearings. Once she did, she spoke brokenly, her eyes locked upon Oliver's mouth the entire time. “I, uh, tried to call him, but he didn't... um, answer. So, I sent him a text – told him that we needed to meet... and move our mouths to communicate. Separately. Not because two people can't communicate through sex. We're about to. But because I don't want to do that with Carter anymore. I would have just told him that 'we needed to talk,' but that seemed too obvious. I want to break up with him in person, not one-up 'The Post-It.'”  
  
“That's good enough for me,” he breathed out, finally touching her by grabbing one of her hands and pulling her away. “Let's go.”  
  
“Where to?”  
  
He was leading them towards his bike... which was in the opposite direction of her car. “Your place, my place. I don't care.”  
  
“You mean your mother's place. And no.”  
  
Oliver shrugged. “I'm an adult – have been for years now. My mother knows that I have sex. She knows that I've had sex at the house. It's fine.”  
  
“Yeah... only it's not.” He stopped and turned back around to face her, an amused smirk lifting the right corner of his mouth. “You should definitely work on your pick-up lines.”  
  
“Really?” Deadpan.   
  
Effecting a deeper voice, Felicity mocked, “hi, I'm Oliver Queen. I'm twenty-seven years old, and I still live with my mother. Want to go have sex in the same room where she once changed my diapers?”  
  
He chuckled, and that smirk turned predatory. “First of all, my moves are smoother than that.”  
  
Felicity shrugged noncommittally.  
  
“Well, considering that you're about to have sex with me...”  
  
“Maybe I'm just easy.” Becoming flustered, she reddened and then rushed on to say, “not _easy_ , easy... just easy. And I'm pretty sure that I picked you up, not the other way around.”  
  
“Except I came to see you at work, I kissed you first, and I tried to kiss you earlier as well.”  
  
She waved him off. “Semantics.” As he started towing her towards his motorcycle once again, she continued to talk. “You also took off on me with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Jacked and promised to be 'right back,' only for me to have to track you down hours later.”  
  
“You tracked me down; I pressed you up.”  
  
It wasn't until he handed her a helmet that she realized that he fully intended for her to ride with him. “Oliver, my car's here.”  
  
“We'll pick it up tomorrow. No, make that Monday morning. Speaking of which, I have a business proposition for you.”  
  
“You're about to take a girl back to her place to have sex with her. It's not exactly the right time to utter the words 'business' or 'proposition.'”  
  
“Point taken.”  
  
“And, also, who invited you to stay the whole weekend?”  
  
“You will. Don't worry.”  
  
She rolled her eyes at him. “Argument number three: I'm wearing heels. And a dress. Dresses have skirts. Ergo, I can't ride you. I mean, your bike. I can't ride on your bike.”  
  
Oliver didn't say anything in return. Instead, he just climbed on his motorcycle. (Okay, so he totally straddled it, and, gah!, she suddenly loved that word. Straddle. He.) Once he was situated, he turned to her and latched his impossibly blue eyes onto her own. Without blinking, without looking away, she then felt his hands slip underneath the skirt of her dress, ever-so-slowly pushing the fabric up until it was all bunched and rucked around her waist, exposing her to him and the night breeze. Felicity bit her bottom lip. He never looked down and, if possible, that was even sexier than what having his eyes on her _there_ would have been like.  
  
Without further protest, Felicity laid her hands upon Oliver's shoulders, and, while he still held her dress, she threw a leg over his bike before molding herself against his back, his thighs. He only let go of her skirt once her arms were wrapped around him, her hands clasped together dangerously low against his abdomen. “Hold onto me tight.”  
  
Oh, she most certainly was going to – over, and over, and over again.  
  
Before Felicity had a chance to respond, Oliver started the bike – its vibrations beneath her a welcome surprise – and they took off.

 

…

 

So, yeah.   
  
A bank.  
  
I followed Oliver on what I thought was his way to the bank... to do what, I don't know, and, now, after having sex with him seven times... Okay, so maybe it was only like three times, but it felt like seven (in the good way), and I'm pretty sure that, if I didn't say what I'm about to say, it could be seven times before the weekend's out, but I'm Felicity Smoak. Which means that I _always_ say anything and everything... even when I know that I shouldn't.   
  
It shouldn't be funny – that this has happened. But it is. Somehow, a stalkerish trip to the ATM turned into me knowing who the vigilante is. And then sleeping with him. I should just enjoy Oliver, and the sex, and the connection we've seemingly had since the moment we met, but I'm not that kind of girl. Three orgasms later, and I'm pretty sure I already have feelings for him... and not just pleasure-bursts of aftershocks either. And the feelings aren't just because of all those reasons I mentioned to him earlier but also because he's the vigilante. Before the night started, my belief had been that The Hood was a criminal. Now, suddenly, I've put a face to that secret identity, and everything's changed. I don't just want more from Oliver; I want it all... including what he thinks I can't handle.  
  
… or maybe it's what he thinks he can't handle me knowing.   
  
Either way, I have to tell him that I'm aware of his secret. I can't sleep with him again before doing so either. Unfortunately.  
  
So, I somehow make my gelatinous muscles cooperate enough to roll over onto my stomach, propping my chin up on my right hand only to reach over with my left and trace Oliver's features. His eyes are closed, his body relaxed, and his breathing shallow, but he's not sleeping. Not yet.   
  
It's all so ridiculous that it's comical, and I'm not going to cry, despite the fact that I fear, as soon as the next words leave my mouth, Oliver is going to disappear, and I'll never see or hear from him again. “So... we're going to have to talk about this greasepaint.” I wipe off a green smudge he must have missed when cleaning up earlier before leaving the foundry and finding me outside. “It's not a sufficient disguise against face-recognition software, and it's going to be nearly impossible to get out of my sheets.”  
  
His eyes popped open – shock, and fear, and intimidation, and denial flashing before me, warring for dominance. But it's the spark of relief that makes me relax.   
  
And then I smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick remarks about the Oliver featured in this story: while Felicity didn't focus upon it (because she was just assuming, and the story wasn't from Oliver's POV), she did mention how Oliver could be light and flirty with her because, at first, she didn't know his secret and then, afterwards, he didn't know that she knew his secret. This is important, and she was entirely right. During S1, Oliver wasn't always completely serious. We saw him laugh, and tease, and play occasionally – whether to convince people that he was still the same man as from before the island or because he was actually trying to be happy, and I think that a Felicity presented as she was in this story could certainly have brought out those traits in Oliver. Anyway, I hope you thought so, too.
> 
> ~Charlynn~


End file.
